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I thought I’d provide one last update on the situation I’ve been dealing with (and blogging about) for the last couple of weeks [see “Back to the Edge of the Cliff” – 03/06/2014 & “Back to the Edge of the Cliff (Update)” – 03/12/2014].  As I last wrote about the situation, we were facing the fact that Christian (a 21 year old boy who had intentionally overdosed on heroin, and was clinically dead for several minutes) was set to be released from the hospital, and had nowhere to go for several days, as he awaited the opportunity to enter the drug rehab program he hoped to get into.  At that time I was wrestling with what role I should play, and trying to discern how far God was calling me to go to help Chris.  Though I had no doubt that the bond we’d formed while he was in the hospital was meant to help him to the next step, I couldn’t help but question the wisdom of bringing a potentially suicidal drug addict under the same roof as my wife and children.  Though I didn’t sense that Chris posed any direct threat to them, his frayed state of mind made the possibilities a little daunting.  

Despite a lot of prayers, I still wasn’t sure what to do when the hospital called last Wednesday to tell me that they’d be discharging Chris from the psychiatric wing that afternoon.  Though I’d called several places, each one presented hurdles that I couldn’t seem to overcome within the given timeframe.  By the time I arrived to pick him up, I had only one potential shelter for him to go to and that was contingent upon him passing a drug screening.  That seemed unlikely since he’d just ODed on heroin, and was being treated with narcotics while in the hospital.  Nonetheless, I believed that if it was meant to be, God would make a way for us.  The more immediate problem was that Chris didn’t have any clothes or ID, and that all of his stuff was at his mother’s house, where she continued to succumb to her own addiction.  As I pulled up to the hospital, the snow was flying and the wind chill was down into the single digits, but Chris was wearing a pair of jeans from the lost and found (several sizes too big and held together by a plastic wire tie), an old scrub shirt, and a pair of flip flops.  Though I gave him my coat, we headed directly to the store to get something to wear.  On the way I told him about the shelter, but he made it clear that if I didn’t want him with us, he could find something on his own.  At that point, I knew that his only chance to stay clean long enough to reach rehab was to take him in.  So after we got him some clothes we headed home.

For the next few days we did our best to keep him safe and calm.  Bekah (my 14 year old daughter) volunteered to sleep on the couch, so he could have a bed; while he, and AJ (my 14 year old son) took to playing on the X-Box.  Other than those few little breaks, Christian was pretty much my shadow.  Everywhere I went, he seemed to be right behind me, and we talked endlessly, about a myriad of topics.  He really seemed to be enjoying the dynamic of being one of our kids, and I must admit that I was surprised by how well things seemed to go.

Despite those positives, there was some underlying tension for me.  One was that I wound up taking the rest of the week off without any prior notice.  I wasn’t sure how well that would sit with my boss, and it was a bit of a drain on my already depleted vacation supply.  Another thing was feeling as though I needed to be accessible to him at all times.  Given the many demands on my time, it was hard to maintain any sort of real balance or routine.  While I generally won’t allow anyone to take precedence over Anita or the kids, for these days Christian was priority one.  While I knew that was probably necessary, it was somewhat unnatural and disconcerting to me.  As the days went on, he began to stay up after we all went to bed, which also made for some restless nights.

On the less subtle side of things, there were immediate challenges as well.  The first of those came from Christian’s mother, who took offense that I was the one he wanted to talk to in the hospital, and looked to when he got out.  That offense grew exponentially when she began to recognize that, to some extent, I was shielding Chris from her.  While I didn’t keep them from talking, I was painfully aware that Carleen’s continued addiction made her a threat to his sobriety, and I would not allow them to be alone together.  As the weekend progressed, her anger and frustration continued to build.  I also looked into the rehab program Chris was holding out for, and from the criteria listed on their website, it was apparent to me that he wasn’t going to qualify.  When I told him this, he insisted that he still wanted to try.  At first, I thought this was because he really wanted that program badly, but in hindsight, I realize that he was already having his doubts and that he was simply stalling for more time.  Though I didn’t immediately nix the idea of waiting until Tuesday (or walking all the way through this program’s process), I began to push Chris to come up with a Plan B and it became apparent that he really had no interest in that.  By Saturday, the Lord was really opening my eyes to the unseen reality of the situation, which was that Chris felt pretty comfortable with us, and that his desire to go through the whole rehab process was beginning to evaporate.  At that time, I still had no real alternatives to the program he was after, and I began to pray earnestly for God to light the path for us.

On Sunday morning we went to church and wouldn’t you know that our Pastor had previously scheduled one of the men from the congregation to speak in his stead that day.  And isn’t it just like the Lord that this man (& his wife) are both recently recovered heroin addicts.  Before the service even started, and before he even knew this man’s story, Chris confessed to me that he felt like he “could go either way today”.  After the man spoke, and as we waited to talk to him, he also shared that he had a strong sense that “this day could end badly or awesomely”.  When we did get to talk to this brother, he shared his story and gave us the contact information for the rehab he went through, which Chris could immediately get into.  Needless to say, I was ecstatic, as I felt as though the Lord had spoken to us loudly and had made a way for us.  Chris, on the other hand, didn’t seem to share my enthusiasm.  He suddenly became very sluggish and non-responsive in our conversations, and for the first time, he began to leave my side, in favor of hanging out with the kids.  After we ate lunch, he even called his mother and invited her to stop by the house.  When she came by, I made sure that I was there, and I could tell that neither of them felt as though they could say what was on their mind.  His mother glared at me and after an awkward silence, decided to leave.  At this point, I knew that the tide had turned and that Chris’ heart wasn’t truly committed to rehab anymore.  Though he wanted to be free of the addiction, he wasn’t necessarily willing to go through the process to get there.  I also believe that if I hadn’t rudely inserted myself into that meeting, Chris may well have gotten in the car with his mother and headed home.

For the rest of the evening I kept Chris close to me and pressed him about what he really wanted.  I knew that we running out of time and I tried hard to get him to commit to heading up to the facility that night; but that same non-committal lethargy seemed to keep washing over him.  It was after midnight before I headed to bed, and I told him that the following day (i.e. Monday) was going to be D-Day.  Anita was going to stay with him throughout the day and I mentioned that he needed do his laundry, so we could pack him up and take him to rehab after dinner.  He didn’t really say much to that and I wondered if he might leave in the night.  But instead he spent all night playing video games and was still awake when I got up for work in the morning.  He finally fell asleep before I got the kids off to school, and sleep for most of the day. 

Not surprisingly, when I got off of work, I found that his mother had blown up my cellphone, and seemed desperate to reach him.  Just as the Spirit in me was letting me know that we were running out of time, so were the spirits in her.  When I got home, he hadn’t done the laundry and was in that same sort of stupor.  When his mom finally called the house and spoke to him, she wanted to know when he was leaving, where he was going, and most importantly, whether there would be a time when he’d be at the house by himself.  Christian’s low ebb, and lack of commitment to the plan I had laid out the night before, caused him to give her vague answers, which made it seem as though nothing had been decided yet.  Ultimately, I believe that those conversations convinced her that she didn’t really need to stop by for another heavily monitored conversation and that she still had some time.  After we ate dinner, and the laundry was dry and folded, I told Christian that it was now or never.  That if he didn’t make this commitment now, that he wasn’t likely to make it.

My old pastor used to say, “You need to seize the opportunity of a lifetime within the lifetime of the opportunity”.  I’m not sure if that was his or whether he read that somewhere, but it has always stuck with me.  There at the table, I laid it all out for Chris, reminding him of all the ways God had spoken to us both in the last few days and of the spiritual battle that was raging all around him.  I told him that the enemy of his soul wanted this to seem like a really complex decision, but that it was really a very simple one.  I explained that he was at a crossroads and that there were only two paths he could take.  One was a road he was intimately familiar with; it was in fact the road he grew up on, and the one that ultimately led him to take his own life.   And while the other road was one he’d never travelled, it was the only other alternative.  I let him know that it was alright to be afraid of what he didn’t know, but that he couldn’t let that fear drive him down the road of death.  I told him that if he didn’t feel strong enough to cross over this threshold, I was willing to carry him across if he’d let me.

I wish I could say that there was some big emotional bang, but he simply stared at me blankly.  After some uncomfortable moments of silence, he finally asked, “Do I have time for a shower before we go?” and I told him that he did.  It took awhile to get him out the door and even longer to get him in the door at the rehab, but late last night he finally took that first step down this new path.  He’s going to need to take a bunch more steps if he’s ever going to be truly free, but I can’t help but be incredibly grateful for this first one.  I’m not sure his mother will ever forgive me for “taking away her son”, but the truth is that I loved her enough to protect him from her.  I know that the mother in her wants him to get well, but the addict in her didn’t want to give up her partner in crime, and at least for now, the addict seems to be in charge.  More than ever, this family needs our prayers.  There are still two young (ages 10yrs & 13yrs) daughters living with this addicted mother, and I feel certain that God is about to deal with that situation as well.  Ultimately that will be a different chapter in this story.  Today I want to thank God for His faithfulness and patience.  Apart from Him, we are all profoundly lost!

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We certainly live in a time of amazing technological advancements, and while many of those developments have represented a significant enhancement from the status quo, there have also been some troubling side effects. I’ve listed a few of those below:

 

Diminishing problem solving/critical thinking skills – Our minds are like our physical bodies, they need to be exercised to remain strong and healthy. Increasingly, we have an “App.” for just about everything, and we have quickly grown accustomed to doing things with the push of a button. More and more, the technology is doing the thinking for us, and we are progressively losing our ability to do things manually. When the technology fails us, we are generally thrown into a state of turmoil, and are often unable to proceed.
Diminishing perseverance and endurance – Since most of these advances tend to make things faster and easier, our expectations are evolving accordingly. As time goes on, our patience and tolerance for anything that doesn’t come fast and easy is waning. The emerging generations are growing up with the concept that everything in life ought to be like that, and a growing reluctance to endure anything that is not.
Trading the real world for virtual reality – The cyber-world has grown to become its own alternate reality, and for many, it has begun to eclipse the real world. Progressively, westerners are spending a lot more time interacting with digital screens than with each other. Most have a lot more “friends” on their social networking site than actual people they associate with regularly, and many seem to be losing their ability to express themselves in complete sentences or beyond 140 characters.
A growing “faith” in technology – Young people seem to take great pride in the technological advances of recent years. They tend to view them as a defining characteristic of their generation. And because of this, they don’t necessarily feel bound to the lessons of history. In the minds of many, the failures of previous generations are rooted in their lack of good technology. For them, there is no problem that humanity has that technology won’t soon resolve.

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In my nearly half a century on the planet I’ve found that life rarely unfolds in the way that we imagine it will.  God, in His sovereignty, has His own unique way of making things happen and I’ve learned just to yield when I sense His hand at work.  In those moments it is best to be as a little child, who simply trusts the direction of his father, regardless of whether he really understands the purpose of it all.  And so it was one evening, a few years ago.  As I walked through the living room and saw about 15 seconds of a commercial for a new reality show about children’s pageants and the people who participate in them.  Within that snippet I saw a young girl (maybe 4 or 5 years old) sobbing, and her mother angrily venting her disapproval and bellowing, “I’m doing all of this for you!”  Rightly or wrongly, my immediate sense was that this woman was deceiving herself and no doubt doing untold damage to her child.

As a father of four (two boys and two girls) I was sickened at the thought of a parent who would be willing to crush their child under the weight of their own unfulfilled expectations.  Though I’d seen fathers do this to their sons on countless ball fields/courts, it was somehow even more startling to watch a mother do it to her daughter.  As my own heart grieved I sensed the grief of heaven join in and I quickly became overwhelmed with emotion.  As I closed my eyes to pray I began to feel the broken heart of this girl.  Strangely, it was not her heart in the instant that I had witnessed, but her heart years later, as she stood at the threshold of adulthood.  As I lingered in that moment, words began to flow and the following verses emerged.

Pageant Girl

Want you to know that I don’t blame you

You just wanted “the best” for me

You sacrificed so much to make me a winner

You deserved better

If I just could’ve stood a little straighter

If my hair wasn’t so stringy

All those cute little outfits

To you, sexy just meant playful

But playful meant something different to them

Anything you serve like an hors d’oeurve is bound to be devoured

If only I had been a better singer

If I just had fuller lips

I tried to smile for the camera

It’s what happened when the camera was off that made it hard

Thank God for makeup

The bruises & scars never showed

Maybe if I had been smarter

If I wasn’t so clumsy

You always said there was a price to pay

And I’ve tried hard to “live the dream”

Guess I must not have wanted it bad enough

You deserved better

If only I had been taller

If I wasn’t so flat-chested

Always in the court, but never the Queen

At nineteen, it’s already too late for me

The “1st Alternate” to the winner is still just a loser

Who could want me now?

If only I could have lost more weight

If my eyes weren’t so close together

I’m sorry for letting you down

For leaving the stage before the show is really over

I’m sorry about all of this blood on the floor

But as it weeps from my wrists, I feel strangely free

If only I could have been a daughter you could be proud of

 

It is hard to describe the profound nature of experiencing these emotions as though they were my own and maybe even harder to explain why God would allow me (a forty something year old man) to have such an experience.  The one thing I felt sure of was that I should try to legitimately speak from the heart of this precious child, and, in as much as I knew how, that is what this piece was about for me.  But after the emotion of the moment ebbed, I was faced with the daunting question of what to do with all this.  While I hoped that people might be touched by the devastating consequences of the unrealistic expectations that are so often heaped upon our children, I couldn’t help but wonder how I might answer the practical questions of where this writing came from and what made me credible to be its author.

Like a coward, I thought about sticking it into one of my many notebooks, where no one but God and I could find it.  But a dear friend reminded me that if God had indeed facilitated this experience, it must be for someone.  So I said a little prayer and posted it on my blog www.bryancorbin.com where someone might stumble upon it.  Within minutes, I received a response from a young woman, half way around the world, who said that she felt as though it had been written specifically for her.  She shared her own heartbreaking poem with me, where she cries out to a father who’d made her feel like a disappointment.  While I tried to share some uplifting words with her, our exchange was brief.  But knowing that someone had profoundly connected with it was all I needed to validate that there had been some purpose behind the whole experience.

Until recently, it has remained tucked away in the archives of my website and frankly, I had no plans to do anything more with it.  Of course, that doesn’t mean that God doesn’t have plans of His own.  Like fresh leaves in springtime, there seems to be new life emerging from these roots and hopefully the branches will reach even further in this season.  Upon reflection, I can see that this was about more than just girls who’ve suffered through the pageant circuit.  It is really for any child who’s been made to feel like they are less than what they were created to be.  And now, instead of simply being a stark picture of the pain that comes with that, a counterpoint of hope has been set upon the horizon.  With the benefit of hindsight, I realize that all I had was a single piece of the puzzle and that it wasn’t until that was combined with other pieces that a clearer, more beautiful picture emerged.  Such is the patience of God.  I pray that all of this will be a seed of hope and healing to those who would receive it.

Please go to http://youtu.be/KQSsXAsZGX0 to watch the video put together by our dear friends Vincent Wigh and Jose Bosque, and featuring the beautiful song, “You Know Me” by Steffany Frizzell.  If this touches you, please share it with others.  God bless.

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The Humanist wants to believe that left to its own devices mankind would eventually create a Utopia. Unfortunately for them, all of human history flies in the face of that notion. While Mr. Lennon could imagine a world with “no heaven”, “no hell”, and with a “people living for today” as paradise, history must once again protest that it would be anything but that. To be sure, it is our very nature to relish the autonomy that accompanies the idea that every man defines truth for himself (i.e. relative truth), yet our demands for justice remain absolute in the things we choose to abhor. To shun the concept that there is a power and authority that is greater than any man could possess is to forfeit our place of refuge from life’s inevitable storms. In such cases we are forced to create imaginary friends, like luck or fate, in order to produce some small sense of hope. But alas, it’s all too much like spending the rent money on lottery tickets. Like the popular country artist, Tim McGraw, sings, life tends to lead us to either “drugs or Jesus”.

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As a white, middle aged man it is tempting to say nothing about many of the controversies that have swirled around in recent months. Unfortunately, some of those issues have hit close enough to home that I’ve needed to interpret and explain them to my kids. In the midst of these discussions, there have been aspects of the current culture that I simply couldn’t make sense of, which is what ultimately compelled me to say something here. Let me preface my remarks with the disclaimer that I am not a racist. I realize that is a fairly worthless declaration, as few people would be willing to admit such a thing to themselves or to anyone else. Nonetheless, I am confident that it is true. I believe that every human being was made in the image of God and, therefore, reveals something unique about who He is. I believe that every life is precious and that every person is worthy of dignity and respect. Because my father was in the military, I was blessed to grow up in a more integrated culture than many people of my generation and to travel to other countries at a young age. This fostered a deep appreciation for the diversity of peoples and cultures that exist beyond my own. I have always believed that the “melting pot” aspect of American society has been one of its greatest strengths. But, despite all that, I am still a Caucasian man, of European decent and, as such, it seems pretty easy to lump me in with all the slave traders and plantation owners who have come before. Of course, in so doing, one would really be no different than a neighborhood watchman, who decides to follow a young man simply because he’s black and wearing a hoodie.

I remember watching my young son experience this phenomenon some years ago. He was about nine years old and we were driving in the car with his best friend, who happened to be black. This was in the season before the 2008 election, and his friend asked him who he was going to vote for. I smiled at the idea of nine year olds having a political discussion and thought about how innocent they were. But, my amusement quickly dissolved when his friend angrily accused him of being a racist for saying that he would vote for John McCain. This was especially shocking to me because these boys had been best friends for years; they’d slept over at each other’s houses and gone to same church since birth. But, in an instant, all of that history was erased because of a dissenting opinion on who was the best candidate. Little did I know that this would be a precursor to many adult discussions that would soon follow, and that I, too, would be accused of the very same thing, by people who should have known me better. Never mind that I’d never voted for any white candidate with the ideology or inexperience that candidate Obama brought to the table, the presumption was that my real issue had to be with the color of his skin. Once again, I risk that accusation by calling into question the way some of these issues are being handled today.

It seems to me that we’ve changed our definition of what constitutes racism and that, along the way, it has become essentially unacceptable to insinuate that a person of color could be a racist. A good example of this occurred during the Trayvon Martin case, where it seemed imperative for the media to portray George Zimmerman as a Caucasian man. Of course, when pictures of Mr. Zimmerman were published, journalists had to concede that he was also of Hispanic descent; but they steadfastly maintained that, for all intents and purposes, he should be considered a white man. I could find no good reason for this charade, other than the idea that a person of ethnic descent couldn’t possibly be motivated by issues of race. In truth, George Zimmerman is as much Hispanic as our president is black, but that doesn’t mean that he was somehow incapable of the racial profiling he was accused of. No race of people has ever completely defeated the very human tendency to distrust those who are different than they are, and, in some cases, to hate them for it. The idea that only white-skinned people battle this issue is the very essence of racism.

In the latest national incident regarding race, a white player for the NFL’s Philadelphia Eagles was caught on tape using the “N” word. To be sure, there is no good justification for what this man did. He has rightfully been shamed and disciplined for his foolish and insensitive behavior. While many of his teammates accepted his apology and seemed ready to move past this unfortunate incident, others have claimed to be so offended that they cannot continue to be in the same organization with him. At this point, it is unclear whether he will remain a part of this team or any other. As I’ve watched these events unfold, I can’t help but wonder at the hypocrisy of it all. Without a doubt this man has heard black players on his team use this term on an almost daily basis in the locker room. Every facet of the Hip Hop culture (e.g. movies, music, comedy…) continues to popularize, promote, and even romanticize this word. Thanks to rappers from Ice-T to Jay-Z, this is how young black kids are taught to refer to themselves and to each other. And after hearing this word all around him for years, this man is now facing the potential loss of his career because it came from his lips. Again, my intent is not to defend Riley Cooper’s actions; he was wrong, and there should be consequences for that. But is it the word that has so offended his teammates or is it the color of the man who said it? Why is that word worth millions when Kanye West shouts it from a stage or raps it on a CD; yet costs millions when we find that it’s passed across Paula Deen’s lips (privately) sometime in the past?

Some might suggest that it isn’t the word itself, but the intent of the person using it, and that would seem to be a valid point. But, if that’s the case, shouldn’t this football player’s three year history with the team outweigh his foolish words in a moment of drunkenness? I’ve heard no one claim that he has any record of behavior that supports the idea that he is a racist. If this were just the latest in a long line of incidents, then, by all means, show him the door. But, if the sole piece of evidence is a twenty-second cell phone video, the (career) death penalty seems a little severe. After all, Dr. King’s dream wasn’t simply equality for people of color; it was that we would reach a point where a man’s skin color wouldn’t matter more than the content of his character. Is Riley Cooper really a racist or is he a foolish man, who in a weak moment used a racist term? I don’t pretend to know the answer, but I would suggest that either one of those is a possibility and that the answer ought to make a difference in how this incident is ultimately resolved.

I personally hate the “N” word and am thankful that most of my black neighbors and friends don’t use it around me. I know the disgusting origins of this term, and it’s mind boggling to me that anyone who knows that history would tolerate its use. I don’t blame anyone for being offended by it, but if we really hate this word why won’t we let it die? There are other racial slurs that I heard as a kid, which have long since disappeared from the vernacular. If you used one of those words around my kids today they’d have no idea what you were talking about. But, even though they’ve never heard me utter the “N” word, they know exactly what it means, and it wasn’t introduced to them by a bunch of rednecks. If we can agree that this word needs to become extinct then there must be an outcry from within the black community against its many prominent and influential members, who continue to champion and profit from the use of this vulgar term. On the other hand, if the problem isn’t so much with the word, but with the race of the person using it, then I would suggest that our problems are much more profound and harder to fix. Either way, I pray that God helps us to find a way to live together in peace.

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Kids who were raised on a steady diet of positive reinforcement and no real discipline, generally become adults who feel as though they ought to be rewarded for doing the right thing and that they shouldn’t have to face the consequences when they don’t. Kids whose strictest form of punishment consisted of a “time out”, tend to grow up to believe that they are somehow entitled to a warning, but that they should never actually be given a ticket.

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As the youngest of three brothers and the father of four kids, I have spent countless hours of my life on ball fields and in bleachers. Over the years, I have experienced sports as a player, a spectator, a parent, a coach and even as part of an officiating crew. And while I don’t fancy myself as an expert on the subject, there are some significant patterns that I have noticed in regard to coaches and coaching styles. I have also found that recognizing these patterns in a coach can be a useful tool in predicting what kind of season you’re in for. While that wasn’t a big concern for me as player, it has become a far greater issue for me as a parent. Given some of the coaching scandals in recent years (e.g. Rutgers basketball, Penn State Football…), it would seem to be prudent to evaluate what motivates a coach prior to making a significant commitment to them. Though the five incentives I’ve listed below are by no means all-inclusive, I do believe that they represent a good starting point.

Love & respect for the game: Though this would seem to be an essential part of any coach’s motivation, I have actually found it to be extremely rare. For most, the game is simply a tool used to meet some other deeply held need. When a player is fortunate enough to find a mentor who is truly passionate about the sport, they tend to learn, not only what to do, but why to do it that way. The upside of this approach is that enthusiasm for the game is often times contagious and frequently produces players that later go on to become coaches. The downside is that “playing the game right” doesn’t necessarily translate into wins and in our culture, that has become the ultimate measuring stick for any coach.
Love of teaching: One of the “deeply held need(s)”, which I mentioned in the previous item, is the need to teach. In my experience, most of the folks who spend an appreciable amount of time in the coaching business are quite naturally “teachers”. For them, the court, or field, or arena… is simply the classroom where they ply their trade and all of the tests are open book. Coaches like this are a vital part of developing younger players and tend to be most effective at the amateur level. The struggle for them is that while they value growth and improvement, fans often care more about the final score.
Love of working with young people: Just as people who love babies are apt to volunteer to work in the nursery, those who enjoy young people are often drawn to the fields of play. This type of coach places a premium on relationship, with their teams often becoming like an extended family. That kind of atmosphere can have a powerful effect on players, especially those who come from broken or dysfunctional homes. Yet, despite the clear virtue of such an arrangement, it only seems to be protected when the winning percentage stays high enough
Love of competition: Like those who have the impulse to teach, competitiveness is something that seems to be innate within many people. For them, coaching can become an avenue to exercise that natural inclination. Those who are motivated in this way tend to be very conscious of the bottom line and many are viewed as successful because of that. Unfortunately, when this is the primary driver for a coach, the players and even the game itself, can become nothing more than a means to an end. This type of coach can flourish in a system where they are able to recruit, draft and/or trade players; but often struggle within a program where they have no control over who comes out for their team. While playing for this kind of coach can be difficult, having one of your kids play for them is even worse.
Sports as an analogy for life: A step beyond those who simply love to teach, are those who view sports as an analogy for life. Their vision extends well beyond developing the player, to cultivating the whole person; and the lessons they teach are meant to transcend the game itself. Finding a coach with the necessary understanding of both the sport and the challenges that life presents; and who has the ability to tie the two together, is a rare and precious thing. Playing for such a coach has the potential to be life changing.

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This morning, on the way to work, I stopped by a convenience store for a cup of coffee. As I got out of my car, I noticed a lady sitting in her car with the window down; as though she was waiting for someone. As I passed by her, she looked at me like she was going to say something, but she didn’t. After I got my coffee, I noticed that she was still there and as I walked back by, she called out to me. With a sheepish expression on her face, she quietly asked, “could you possibly help me with enough gas to get home?” I wish I could say that I didn’t even hesitate to help her, but the truth is that I immediately began to try to evaluate this women and her situation. She seemed pretty clear eyed. Her car was much newer than mine and seemed to be well maintained. In as much as I could discern, she seemed sincere. I’m not sure what I hoped to derive from those observations, as I asked, “where is home?” When she named a town that was almost fifty miles south of where we were, the little cash register in my mind began to calculate how much gas she’d need to make it that far.

For me, this kind of thing is always a wrestling match. The pragmatic side of me wants to question, “what if she’s just trying to panhandle a tank of gas”, “what if she spent all her money on drugs and now you’re helping her get her stash back to the neighborhood”, what if, what if, what if…? But the other side of me asks, “what if this were your mom, or your sister or your wife or one of your daughters?” “Wouldn’t you want someone trustworthy to be there for them?” Of course, all of these things flash through your mind in a nanosecond and ultimately, you just have to go with your strongest impulse. This morning, that impulse was to tell her to pull up to the pump and to head back in to pre-pay for some gas.

As I pulled out of the lot, she waved to me and mouthed the words “thank you”; and as I traveled down the highway, I found myself saying a little prayer for her. She hadn’t offered an explanation of what was going on, so all I could do was pray that God get her home safely; and maybe that’s all she needed. In the end, it doesn’t really matter what her story was. I’ve lived long enough to experience times of being stranded, of being alone and of just wanting to get home. And in those times, it has often been the kindness of strangers that made all the difference. At this point in my life, I’d rather take the chance of being swindled than to take the chance that I ignored someone who really needed help. Some might refer to this as “paying it forward”, and while I hope that might be true, I can also say that I’ve probably got some “paying back” to do. It seems to me that on an almost daily basis there are opportunities to reach out and be a neighbor to someone. To my shame, I often miss those opportunities. On the days that I manage to seize that moment, I can’t help but wonder why I don’t do that more often.

We live in a time and in a culture where it is easy to be cynical about people’s motivations; but even so, there are many who still have the genuine need of a helping hand. I pray that our cynicism will not overcome our desire to reach out to the people around us.

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How readily we bemoan our condition

Yet how lethargic we are in changing direction

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How ardent our cries for justice

Yet how timid our esteem for the law

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How tightly we hold to our opinions

Yet how weakly we grasp the truth

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How easily we resent those who expect something from us

Yet how relentless are the demands we make of others

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How eager we are to speak

Yet how loath we are to listen

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How brash we are in our vanity

Yet how crippled we are by our insecurities

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How carelessly we forget our blessings

Yet how meticulously we record our offense

How fervent we get about things we cannot change

Yet how languid we can be about the things that are ours to do

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How reluctant we are to accept a God who would hold us accountable

Yet how easy we blame Him for the problems of the world

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How quick we are to expect grace

Yet how grudgingly we dispense mercy

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How voraciously we feed our appetites

Yet how famished we find our souls

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How formidable our cynicism

Yet how fragile our hope

 *

So in need of redemption

Yet so unwilling to yield

 

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As I come dangerously close to reaching the half century mark, it is amazing to ponder the dramatic cultural changes that I have witnessed.  As a child of 1960’s, I was born just as the counter-culture movement was reaching full swing and to be sure, those were tumultuous days.  By the end of that decade it seemed as though the revolution had truly begun; but in just a few short years (i.e. by the mid 1970’s) the movement seemed to fizzle into a haze of disillusionment, cocaine and disco music.  Initially, it didn’t seem as though this war on the “establishment” had been very successful in significantly transforming “mainstream” thinking; but with the benefit of hindsight, it has become clear that the impact was far greater than anyone could have imagined.

Considering the forty years that proceeded that period, it’s easy to see that the stage was set for something dramatic.  The people had grown weary from decades of constant struggle (e.g. World War I, the Great Depression, World War II, the Korean War…) and they were restless to break out of that cycle.  As the country found itself on the threshold of yet another significant conflict (i.e. the Cold War / the Vietnam War), the collective fortitude began to waiver.  Many weren’t sold on the idea that America needed to engage in this latest battle, as the voices of dissent began to grow louder.  After years of largely standing united against the external forces of adversity, many started to doubt the wisdom of that approach for the future.

In many ways it was a perfect storm and it ushered in a decade of great cultural upheaval.  Most Sociologists would likely characterize this as a time of “enlightenment”, whereby traditional doctrines and values were questioned; and where concerns over the rights of the individual began to gain traction against the concept of what might be needed for the good of the whole nation.  Amongst those cultural elements that were challenged was the largely Judeo-Christian based value system that had been so prevalent during the war years.  From the earliest days of the movement, the seeds of secular humanism began to find fertile ground in the minds of its purveyors.  One aspect of this assault on traditional values was the overt sexuality that would eventually become a hallmark of the movement.  While the general public did not necessarily embrace the hedonism of the counter-culture, there is no doubt that there was a definitive shift in mainstream ideas about what was both normal and acceptable.

Although there is no doubt that the culture was changed by those years, I would submit that the greatest impact was still yet to be seen.  By the late 1970’s America was fully emerged in the Cold War era and seemed to have returned to some new state of normal.  At least on the surface, our national trajectory did not appear to be greatly altered; but within the collective consciousness, the seeds of this revolution continued to germinate.  Culturally, as we opened our minds to “new truths”, our belief in absolutes progressively eroded; and with the explosion of new technologies, our sense of self-reliance continued to grow.  With each successive generation, our thinking moved steadily toward moral relativism and secular humanism.  Truths that were once perceived as etched in stone became like balls of clay, which could be molded and shaped into whatever form might suit us.  Our concept of freedom shifted from maintaining a national landscape of opportunity to establishing an atmosphere of personal autonomy and entitlement.  Little by little, who we are and what we stand for, steadily migrated away from where we’d been as a nation.

Despite this migration, I do not believe that it would be accurate to say that we’ve arrived at a purely secular humanist point of view.  As an inherently religious nation, we’ve retained many of the trappings of our Judeo-Christian past; and instead of becoming a culture of atheists and/or agnostics, we’ve simply revised our brand of religion.  Despite our pension for rationalization, the vast majority of Americans still consider themselves to be “spiritual” and to believe in some form of “higher power”.  In keeping with the theme of moral relativism, we’ve chosen to retain those aspects of God and religion that we feel comfortable with and to disregard the rest.  This has created a strange amalgam of beliefs that are based on wildly diverse concepts, such as the Bible, Hedonism, Capitalism, Marxist Socialism, the “American Dream” and Darwinian Theory.  Despite the confusion caused by attempting to merge these disparate views, our culture seems to pursue this ideology with such fervor that this hybrid of religious-humanism should likely be characterized as a religion unto itself.  Though many still identify themselves as being a part of one of the more established religious traditions, this new paradigm has largely replaced anything that might pass for an orthodox theology.

In this new religion, we still extol the virtues of faith; but now that faith is rooted in the basic goodness of mankind, in the advances in our technology, in the power of our self realization and in the superiority of our ideologies.  It also acknowledges the value of hope; but that hope is based on the idea that every generation should do better than the one that came before it and that America is somehow destined to live at a level that is far beyond what the rest of the world does.  It also believes in the concept of love, but does not bind itself to the constraints of things like loyalty, self sacrifice or turning the other cheek.  Ultimately, this new theology will accept a god who “is love”, but not one who would attempt to hold a man accountable for his deeds.  It will embrace things like angels and prayers and heaven; but it will not accept any orthodox view of sin, hell or judgment to come.

Despite the fact that many of these ideas (e.g. enlightenment, humanism, socialism…) are old and have a track record of utter failure, our new found faith frees us from feeling bound to their history; as we are confident that we have somehow evolved beyond the level of those cultures that came before us.  Because of the numerous contradictions inherent in this patchwork of philosophies, it seems almost immune to rational criticism.  After all, if one can reconcile this belief system, it seems doubtful that facts or logic would hold much sway.  If anything, our culture seems to be aiming for ambiguity, as a means to head off the potential for accountability.  Within our new value system, the only thing that is truly sacred is our right to choose our own way.

Even those who perceive themselves as the guardians of orthodox religion have largely compromised the purity of their message in an attempt to remain “culturally relevant”.  In Christendom, the gospel has been blended with the “American Dream”, to create a message of endless, God ordained, prosperity; or with secular marketing strategies, in the name of evangelism or with futurist doctrines, under the guise of advancing the kingdom of God.  A recipe that’s proven successful at many of the country’s most popular ministries is to mix a little motivational talk, with a pinch of self-help seminar and a cup of musical theater; all served up in the comfort of a posh coffee bar.  It’s all about making the people feel comfortable and to keep them coming back for more; which just happens to play well with the populist view.

For the remnant, who still stubbornly cling to the ancient texts of the Bible, this all should come as no real surprise.  The Apostle Paul told Timothy, “For the time will come when men will not put up with sound doctrine.  Instead, to suit their own desires, they will gather around them a great number of teachers to say what their itching ears want to hear.  They will turn their ears away from the truth and turn aside to myths (2 Tim 4:3-4).”  In his letter to the Colossians he warned, “See to it that no one takes you captive through hollow and deceptive philosophy, which depends on human tradition and the basic principles of this world rather than on Christ (Col 2:8)”; and in speaking of the end times he said, “There will be terrible times in the last days.  People will be lovers of themselves, lovers of money, boastful, proud, abusive, disobedient to their parents, ungrateful, unholy, without love, unforgiving, slanderous, without self-control, brutal, not lovers of good, treacherous, rash, conceited, lovers of pleasure rather than lovers of God – having a form of godliness, but denying it’s power (2 Tim 3:1-5)”.  As I turn on the television or listen to the radio or look at my computer or even just attend one of my kid’s ballgames, I can’t help but think that this is becoming a pretty fair description of our culture.  Ultimately it is the fruit of our new national religion.

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